Musings of Professor Severus Snape
by Starlight Glimmer
Summary: This was bad. He had no alcohol, Potter was sorted into his house, Quirrell was acting oddly, Dumbledore was being as irritating as usual, he was talking to his journal and his talent at poetry was being ignored. This was really, really bad.
1. August 31st, 1991

_**Warning: Severus might be a tad OOC. Events are AU. **_

_**Disclaimer: Harry Potter's not mine. **_

**Diary of Severus Snape**

**If a dunderhead like you,**

**Should ever deem yourself worthy,**

**To read Professor Snape's journal,**

**Rest assured, you would make a delightful potion ingredient…**

**August 31****st**

**7:00am **

**Bedroom**

Dear Merlin. My simply astounding talent at poetry amazes even me. It doesn't even rhyme and yet it is perfectly ominous and…poetic.

Though it probably won't keep nosy, arrogant eleven-year-olds that start Hogwarts tomorrow with the name of Potter out of it. I really must go place some hexes and curses on this.

**7:12am **

Very proud of myself. I have officially invented a new spell and have placed it on my journal. Now, who would be a good test subject?

Ah ha! Quirrell! Sometimes I wonder about my own brilliance (of course, not in a way that James bloody Potter would wonder about his non existent-brilliance)

**7:19am**

Have composed a poem about my new spell and Quirrell.

_Sometimes I wonder if you have to work to be dumb,_

_And then Quirrell came, and I wondered no more!_

_I suppose we can't all be gifted in Hexes and Potions,_

_The best you can do is dream up (ridiculous) notions!_

_So Quirrell, Quirrell, since you can do no more,_

_Then why not be my test subject for spells galore?_

I admit that this was probably not one of my better poems. But it only took seven minutes, and even you can't expect someone like me to have a brilliant poem…

Wondering if I should give up spying on Dark Lords and instead spend rest of my life writing poetry like that Da Vinci fellow. Not that Da Vinci fellow spied on Dark Lords. I meant the writing poetry bit.

Wait...was that the Euler Muggle who wrote poetry?

Yes, I think it was him.

I think I will give up my position as a double agent and Hogwarts Professor. It'll probably give me a better future. After all, people have got famous for poetry.

The fates of most double agents is:

1. Death

Or

2. Jail for life

Definitely. I shall resign now, to avoid such a dire fate.

**7:59am**

Writing letters to dead evil Dark Lords and lemon-drop maniacs are much more difficult than I thought. So far, this is what I have got:

Short, and to the point.

_Dear Dumbledore,_

_In the kindest way possible, you are a lemon-drop obsessed, infuriating, dunderhead-ish (_yes, I know that's not a word), _moronic lunatic and I cannot stand to work with you any longer._

_I, Severus Snape, hereby resign myself from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and in the process, free myself of all duties regarding spying on evil dark lords._

_Best wishes,_

_Severus Snape_

I know, I know. It's quite impressive, isn't it? Wait till you see this one:

_Dear Dark Lord,_

_I, Severus Snape, your trusted spy and Potions Master, declare my resignation and would like to say that it would be beneficial to acquire a nose of some sort. Also, if it is in your convenience, do try not to kill me. _

_Best of Britain's Luck (that you succeed in your…task),_

_Severus Snape_

I won't be surprised if the Dark Lord read this and then gave up all his power to me. Severus Snape, the Dark Master of Poetry, composer of difficult letters. Very noble title, I think.

Damn it. Breakfast is on, with said lemon-drop maniac. I'm wondering if I should give this letter to him…

**8:30am **

I have returned from breakfast early, due to an…unfortunate incident in which Albus reads my magnificent letter and chokes on his coffee. It was probably the sheer gloriousness of it, I think. Though that doesn't explain why he was laughing after he had…luckily recovered. I feel that I should prepare another one for him…just for the joy of seeing him cough and splutter. And yes, I know I am a tad sadistic. It's in my nature.

**9:38am**

Meeting with Albus has just finished. How lovely. Discussed my resignation letter, in which his annoying rooster, Fawkes, wouldn't stop cooing and humming to the old man while he twinkled at me. Mwhahahaha… He'll stop twinkling when he realises I hired a therapist called Bob Twinkle-No-Longer for his…problems. Honestly, the man should be dead by now. Anyway…

Resignation letter was not accepted. For some peculiar reason, Albus thought I was resigning from Hogwarts because of something to do with the eagerness of the house elves when they were preparing the meals. I can't be sure that's what he said. Albus was blushing and mumbling, for one. Sometimes, I can't even believe that the Headmaster is an all-powerful, all-knowing being. Wait…that's the Lord God or something. Well, point is, that he acts more like a teenage girl than the mighty wizard everyone says he is.

Though, the look on his face when he read the '_lemon-drop obsessed, infuriating, dunderhead-ish_, _moronic lunatic and I cannot stand to work with you any longer' _bit was priceless.

But then Albus asked, 'Lemon Drop, Severus?' It is at these times I admire my self-control. Perhaps it has something to do with spending too much time with evil, conniving, nose-less psychopaths and kind, manipulative grandpas. Yes, that's probably it. Dealing with these kind of specimens require an unlimited amount of patience, blindfolds (from Dumbledore's overbright twinkling in his eyes) and constant calming draughts.

Sigh…I still haven't gotten over the fact that my resignation letter was _rejected. _

**10:27am **

Wondering if I should go drown myself in a bowl of water. I cannot believe it! The unfairness of this world! Bloody Argus Filch won the bloody Daily Prophet Grand Prize Galleon Draw! Him! That nasty, hideous, cat-excrement smelling Squib! 1500 bloody Galleons!

Albus told me to calm down and be happy for him. _Happy_. Can you believe the nerve of that man?

Even the nicest of kind fools could not be happy for a man who was going to spend _1500 bloody Galleons _on _bloody cat things! _Have you seen the man? Terrible sort, really. Stringy, dirty, oily hair. Filthy, muddy, wrinkly face. Horrible, sunken, dry looking eyes, unlike my own brilliant, mysterious black. Unshaven face. Clothes that have never seen soap or water before. Basically the look a homeless man whose wife has kicked him out of the house would have. Did I mention he was hopelessly devoted to that feline of his? So much that he'll spend most of his 1500 bloody Galleons on it!

I must go find a bowl of water.

**10:45am**

Feeling much, much happier after reviewing the letter that the Goblins sent me. Once again, I am reminded of the immense wealth of the Princes. And the non-existent wealth of my good for nothing father. Just thinking about him makes my skin crawl with a desire for revenge… Too bad he's already gone and buried.

I really must start with my lesson plan for tomorrow. And write my speech for frightening firsties. Mwhahaha… How I love terrorising little, idiotic midgets.

**12:19pm**

This day is passing unpleasantly fast. Soon, I shall be confronted with the unfortunate task of _caring _for Harry-Bloody-Potter. Stupid brat. He'll probably be the very replica of his obnoxious father. I shall go to Minerva now, who had unfortunately been burdened with the task of taking Potter to Diagon Alley. She had quite the adventure apparently.

Potter confused her with a crazy, mental escapee from an insane asylum, so I am forced to think he is…amusing. The look on Minerva's face was very similar to when the Marauders pranked her and changed her robes into a set of pyjamas in the middle of Transfiguration. So, now she quite understands the horror Potters can be, and, amazingly, sympathises with me. And besides, she has that excellent red wine in her cabinet… I would go to Lucius, but then Albus has closed all the Floo fireplaces since the Weasley incident last year. The twin terrors charmed the fireplaces so that everyone who used the Floo would get transfigured into some form of farmyard animal. It was most annoying, though I admit I did snicker a bit when Lucius came through to talk to Dumbledore and turned into a delightful, tiny guinea pig. I have never heard a little domestic animal squeak so indignantly before.

**2:47pm**

Lunch was the most awful affair. Hooch and her new boyfriend, Gregory Dickard were seated next to me, and the Quidditch professor was giggling madly and whispering disgusting endearments in her companion's ear. I am scarred for life, I swear. It was most horrible. And to make matters even worse, Sprout was giving me a most-unwanted rant about the properties of the Devil's Snare and explained their usefulness in Potions. Humph, as though I, a renowned Potions Master, didn't know that the leaves of the Devil's Snare could be used in poisons like the Suffocation Concoction. Of _course _I knew that. As if the combination of these two disasters (Hooch and Sprout, I mean) wasn't bad enough, Hagrid had knocked over the wine in McGonagall's goblet (I suppose it might be quite surprising to those who don't know her well; Minerva doesn't seem like the alcoholic type, but what I had the misfortune to see has convinced me that Minerva is, indeed, an alcoholic- Ogden's best Firewhiskey is her best friend after she loses a Quidditch Final to my Slytherins, which is to say, every year.) But that's beside the point. The point is that Hagrid knocked down the wine, made a mess of cleaning it up, somehow upturned the rest of it on Sprout, who in turn spluttered and spat all over my lunch in addition to drowning it in droplets of wine. How very pleasing.

Then, of course, I scowled and sneered and shot very intelligent and snarky remarks at everyone in the surrounding area, and excused myself from a thoroughly ruined lunch.

Thank Merlin I had some of Minerva's best wine inside me before that entire catastrophe occurred. Otherwise, I would have probably done something much more drastic then sneer and scowl and shoot remarks at people. However, I am still not feeling my best and it is of utmost importance that I _do _feel my best since I have to deal with brainless idiots tomorrow. It won't look too good for my records to read: Charged for murdering students.

Urgh.

I really, really need some more of Minerva's alcoholic products.

**3:19pm**

Bugger bugger bugger bugger bugger bugger bugger bugger bugger bugger bugger bugger bugger.

Minerva's cruelty can reach the Dark Lord's standard sometimes.

**3:22pm**

I still _cannot _believe that she has refused to supply me with some much-needed alcohol!

**3:23pm**

I am still in denial.

**3:24pm**

How would I ever manage to survive the school year _and _rescue Harry Potter from the expected senseless stunts he is going to perform?

**3:25pm**

Perhaps I can risk spending a teeny bit of my massive inheritance from my mother on something that can save my sanity… And just before you say anything, I am _not _a miser. I am merely cautious of the amount I spend (especially on beer and vodka and wine and all that) after I watched Gus Goyle spend every single bit of both the Rosier inheritance from his aunt and the surprisingly famous inheritance from his parents on rum. How the mighty have fallen.

Pureblood families have a very, very huge advantage of the rest of the people. Money. Even if you, your parents and your grandparents prove to be an utter failure at life and possess a non-existent amount of intelligence, you can still end up bloody rich because your great-great-great grandfather owned a huge gold mine. Yes, I was talking about the Goyles.

The Malfoys, I reluctantly admit, do not _completely _rely on the successes and wealth of their ancestors. They actually couldn't, since Lucius's ancestry is French, and they didn't move to England until his great-great grandfather suddenly decided that. Then, in England, they started as mere peasants.

How I love to rub that fact into Lucius's face. When his great-great grandfather was working on the fields as a lowly farmer, my great-great grandfather (a Prince) was feasting, living in complete luxury and had power over a quarter of the Ministry. Even though his family is very well known and respected and even more bloody rich then they are here in France…Who cares? We're living in England now.

So…Yes, I'll make a trip to Muggle London to get some alcohol. Even though I love to admit it, Muggle alcohol far surpasses Wizard alcohol.

**6:49pm**

Almost dinner. Going to have a quick shower.

**8:31pm**

Albus likes to make a colossal fuss about everything that is not relevant to the survival of the Wizarding World. I had forgotten that he always had to have a party when the day before the School Term started.

I hate parties.

But this was an important one, for during this party, I started to suspect Quirrell of doing all sorts of ungodly things. Hence, I must record all and every single detail of this…party in this journal of mine, and add more protections to it during the process.

So, I arrived at this horrible celebration at precisely 6:59pm, scowling and wearing my magnificent, freshly laundered robes, that were, of course, as dark as a bottomless pit (I am getting good at similes, I must say). Back to the point, now.

As custom required, I immediately found myself a shadowed corner in the Great Hall in order to observe everyone- a habit I had picked up in the dark days when I spied on the Dark Lord.

It was 7:33pm when things started to get fishy (and no, that was not a reference to when that confounded cat of Filch pounced up the table and rolled in some salmon sauce). Quirrell, who I had kept a special eye on since he was our newly recruited staff, actually shot a hidden look of _contempt _at Dumbledore. Yes, the stuttering fool who was afraid of his own shadow actually scorned the Headmaster. To the untrained eye, it merely seemed as though he was squinting at Dumbledore while eating a particularly foul tasting dish.

Then, he looked straight at me, into my eyes, and though he turned away quickly, seemingly frightened, I could feel the almost unrecognisable, subtle brush of Leglimency that only the Dark Lord could accomplish. I wouldn't have felt it at all if I weren't stifling a yawn at Trelawney's long-winded explanation of the workings of the Inner Eye. I, of course, knew that she was fully capable of producing a real prophecy, but I hardly thought that she would spout one out in the middle of _this. _And even if she did, the booming voice was bound to attract attention. So, I was bored and yawning.

In my half-asleep, undisturbed mind, any slight move of motion could be noticed, but I showed no sign of being aware of being Leglimised.

The third suspicious event of the night was when Quirrell excused himself from the party at 8:19pm. I, being who I am, followed him to his chambers and using the skills I had developed from spying, I was able to be unnoticed. Nothing much happened, except I heard a muffled cackle of evil laughter.

Now, all these could be easily excused. The glare at Dumbledore might actually have been Quirrell's failing eyesight and poor choice in food. The touch of Leglimency might have just been my imagination or my 'Inner Eye' awaking. The evil laughter might have been the result of a low alcoholic tolerance and too much whiskey.

Still, I wasn't going to risk it.

This is going to be a long, long year.

**9:57pm**

Am extremely dispirited. Students come in tomorrow. Is in need of sleep and Dreamless potion, less I see Pomfrey's items of clothing again. Damn the Weasley twins.

Argh…I really should just resign.

_**If you've reached the bottom of the page, thanks! I'd like to know your opinion for this story. Shall I continue? It is probably pretty obvious that feedback and constructive criticism is appreciated. **_


	2. September 1st, 1991

_**Disclaimer: Harry Potter isn't mine. **_

**September the 1****st**

**4:37am**

I can feel that my impending doom is coming, and that I am powerless to stop it, unless I somehow manage to get that stupid, ancient fool to accept my resignation letter, which he has framed and put on his desk. Said stupid, ancient fool's head has suddenly appeared in my fireplace. I really ought to tell him the meaning of privacy; what if I was not dressed? Hmpph! Albus is looking at me oddly as I scribble this. Hah, let him wonder.

He has called me to his office to discuss something of utmost importance. It truly must be important since he has decided to wake up every single member of the staff at this ungodly hour of the morning. I suppose I should get going, then.

**6:12am**

Am severely annoyed. Dumbledore immediately needs to adjust his priorities. As if anyone cares about missing one, single, insignificant event. Forgetting to participate in the annual 'Guess the House' Contest. It's hardly going to determine the survival of the world or something similar. Humph. That old man is going senile. That is, even more senile than before. I could have been doing something much more important, such as writing my speech for the first Potions Class of the year.

Back to the meeting. I walked in, composed as always, and looking as good as humanly possible at this time in the morning whereas my other colleagues were looking most unfortunate. Minerva's greying hair was messily tied up into what resembled a bun, and her robes were in an absolute mess. Hagrid looked no worse than usual, thankfully. Flitwick who was still in his pyjamas (a sight I never want to see again) was trying a horrible attempt at frowning, and with his short arms crossed over his tiny chest, he looked like a petulant child instead of the admittedly good dueller he was. Sprout was smiling brightly as always though her hair was (for once) not crusted with dirt and home to leaves and twigs. Quirrell, surprisingly, looked as normal as always, and even at 6:19am, his head was still wrapped in that damnable turban of his. Hmmm…suspicious. I wonder why he has that turban… Obviously, I don't buy that pile of crap about religion and all that.

And _Hooch, _who has continued scarring me with sights that are almost as frightening as one of the Dark Lord'splay sessions. She was wearing a, Merlin forbid, suggestively short nightdress that covered…little. Seriously, _those _years were well past that 40-year-old woman. She ought to have a shred of modesty; after all, she had hardly anything…good…to show. If she was going to be…intimate with her newest boyfriend, she could at least hide it.

Argh. I am disgusted. That was _horrible_. I really need some mind cleaners.

What's worse? She actually _winked _at me.

Oh Merlin. Excuse me while I go vomit.

Because I do not wish to spend the rest of my days locked in a mental institution with horrified eyes and whispering 'Save me from that woman! Argh…Hooch!', I shall, as youngsters say, ditch this subject. And possibly obliviate myself.

Anyway, back to the meeting. After taking my normal seat next to Dumbledore and opposite Minerva, I fixed my best intimidating what-the-heck-do-you-want glare on the Headmaster and asked in a very civilized tone, 'Dumbledore? Why have you called us here?' It was merely coincidence that I had my wand clenched in my hand. Nothing to do with homicidal tendencies, nor my self-control fraying under constant stress. Even without the Dark Lord in the world, there were still students like Ponsum, who had this indescribable ability to make cauldrons explode, no matter he was sitting 4 rows away. And, worse, he was one of my Snakes.

Not the point, anyway.

And then, with twinkling eyes and a mildly reproachful look, Albus said, 'Severus, my boy! Surely you remember the competition?'

I, as expected, scowled. 'As a matter of fact, I do not know of what competition you speak of.' It was obvious I did, in fact, remember the competition, but I was irritated. But not on the verse of homicidal, of course.

Albus just beamed. 'The Guess the House competition, of course! I have postponed it until today for you, Severus! Strangely, you were not available yesterday in the afternoon.'

Yesterday afternoon…Oh, of course. 'I was out conducting some business.' Said business, of course, was purchasing wine. A very important task, surely.

My employer just nodded happily. 'Of course! So we shall begin!' I would have face palmed, though that would have destroyed my reputation.

Now, I should probably explain this foolish contest to you, though I do not know why a diar- journal would care. Humph. Anyway, the Guess the House contest is what the name implies. Members of the staff are forced, under the threat of Albus's lemon drops, to predict the houses of the first years that enter that year. We write the guessed House next to the student's name on a sheet of parchment, and then we put it in one of those ridiculous-looking spare hats of Albus's. Then, at the Sorting, one of the professors is chosen to write down the houses for every student. Whoever has the most correct assumptions about the Sortings gets paid 5 Galleons from each professor. Due to my vast amounts of brilliance, I managed to strike a deal with Albus when I accepted the job, and so I don't need to spend the Great Feast writing the houses of every, single idiot in first year.

Fantastic.

So, the meeting. Minerva, bless that cat, demanded furiously, 'Albus, you got us up at this unholy hour just to…' She waved her hands around manically, looking like Xenophilius Lovegood trying to ward off Nargles. 'To do _this!_'

Albus just smiled at her again and popped some horrid lolly in his mouth. He pulled out a long roll of parchment from his robes and let it unroll. Hagrid's mouth dropped open, completing the impossible: To look even more imbecilic than he already is. 'Crikey, Mr Dumbledore! How many firsties are they dis year?' All of us ignored him. Albus peered at the first name on the list, and read out, 'Hannah Abbot'

I snorted. A Hufflepuff for sure, if her family history was anything to go by. This was going to be boring.

10 minutes later:

'Harry Potter' Flitwick looked thoughtful. 'He'll have his parents' brilliance, Mr Potter will. Perhaps even a keen sense of curiosity, like his mother. I'll say Ravenclaw, Albus.' An R was written down on Flitwick's.

Right after Flitwick's proclamation, Sprout hastily said, 'I think Harry's got a chance at Hufflepuff. He's bound to have buckets of compassion and kindness, with parents like that.'

I couldn't help the sneer. Harry Potter, in Hufflepuff? Harry Potter, have _buckets _of _compassion_? Hah, Minerva's tales told quite a different story. Maybe her first-hand experience with the boy had caused her to doubt the House he would be sorted in…

'Mr Dumbledore? What do yer say?' Hagrid asked. 'I think Gryffindor, no doubt.'

Albus smiled benignly. 'I believe Gryffindor would be the best choice for Mr Potter.'

He would, I thought, a bit nastily. Albus, though he denied it, was prejudiced, and thought Gryffindor to be the best house.

'Minerva?' The man asked.

'Gryffindor.' Was the short reply. 'Severus, what say you?'

'Harry Potter will be in Slytherin.' I answered promptly, drawing shocked looks. 'There is absolutely no way that the boy will follow any expectations laid out for him.' I shot a nasty look at Albus. 'In fact, I believe that he will do the exact opposite.'

Silence.

Ahh…This was almost as good as drinking a whole bottle of vodka.

**11:00am**

No! The students are coming to Hogwarts! I had serious doubts about the castle being able to survive the year…Thank Merlin I had thought ahead and now had a place in that Brazilian school, Bruxaria. Such a literal name…Witchcraft. There is an advantage of being Britain's most renowned Potions Master that is under 50 years of age. Besides being able to rub it in Slughorn's face, that is. Though that man really is too snobbish, and dangerously so. I wasn't a Death Eater for nothing… Merlin knows how many times I had to take the Calming Draught (disguised in a drink, of course) during the Potions Masters of Britain Conference. I admit the whole party wasn't too horrible- in fact; the speeches given by Lamano and Cadlihar were actually quite inspiring. They were idols in the area of Potions, and had invented many borderline dark potions, one of them being the Drink of Despair. But, brilliant as they may be, they had no sense of imagination at all. The Drink of Despair? Huh, hardly a name that sounded scarily scientific. But, I imagine that they were thinking of all those imbecilic children when they invented a name like that. But they really are incredibly intelligent... I thought that the Alihotsy Draught was hilarious, especially when applied to an oblivious Slughorn. Watching him burst into tears when someone asked him 'How are you?' was most amusing. I knew some good would come out of having Lamano and Cadlihar as my acquaintances.

Getting off topic again. I blame this on you, journal. You could, at least, like other normal journals talk and be able to tell me when I'm getting off-track. Or yell when someone's trying to read you. At least I wont have to go into all that trouble of inventing hexes and curses and placing new ones on this.

So, Bruxaria's headmaster, the famed Matheus Silva. He dabbled in Potions for a while, and reads the Potions Daily. Wiry man, with an odd kind of fringe, dark brown hair, and obsessed with football.

**12:19pm **

I feel terrible. Usually, the thought of some hundreds of students coming into a nice, peaceful castle is enough to make me an alcoholic (not that I am an alcoholic, or will be). But this was different. Harry-Bloody-Potter, spawn of the James-Idiot-Potter, is coming to Hogwarts! He is going to sit in _my _class, and ruin everything! And now, thank you very much; I am not throwing a tantrum. I am merely expressing my concern for the well being of other first-years. No doubt he'll blow up the entire classroom… There is absolutely _nothing _that can cheer me up now, I'm sure of it.

**12:40pm**

Am feeling slightly happier. Bob Twinkle-No-Longer is arriving at Hogwarts in precisely 11 minutes and 33 seconds, and then I would not have to survive Dumbledore's crazy schemes that involve me doing something that is life threatening or would make me make a fool out of myself. Honestly, I am looking forward to it.

**12:51pm**

I…am…dying…of…laughter… Oh…Merlin…

**1:22pm**

I have just come back from the Hospital Wing, where Poppy gave me some Calming Draught. Hah, I've been having a lot of that lately. Not often enough for addiction mind you. Anyway, Albus's first meeting with the therapist.

Albus, as always, invited us into his office and offered us The Sweet. I, of course, declined and found myself a pleasant, comfortable spot in the shadows of his office that gave me a full view of the drama that I was sure would follow.

So:

Albus: Good afternoon, Mr…?

Bob: Just call me Bob, Albus.

*Albus smiles benignly and twinkles at him. Bob smiles back just as nicely. *

Bob: Albus, you seem to have a problem with your eyes.

*Albus's smile becomes slightly fixed*

Albus: Would you care to elaborate on that, my dear boy?

*Bob's smile becomes slyer as he scribbles something in his notebook. He reaches over the desk and pats Albus's hand comfortingly. I smirk openly in the corner, and fix the magical video-taper on the two. *

Bob: Well, I'm afraid to tell you it is just not normal for your eyes to shimmer like that. Have you had a spell placed on you?

Albus: Of course not, Bob. I would assume I would be aware if a spell was placed on my eyes.

Bob: Ahh…only assumptions, then?

Albus: Would you not feel it if a spell was placed on you?

*Bob fixes Albus with a stern look. I stifle my laughter. *

Bob: Perhaps not. There are spells that can be placed upon spells in order to make the spell unnoticeable. Surely you know this?

Albus: Are you implying I don't?

*Bob smiles again. *

Bob: Why would I imply such thing?

Albus: May I inquire to why you are here, Bob?

Bob: I am here to offer you help, Albus.

Albus: And what help may I need?

*Bob has a serious expression on his face. *

Bob: Albus, you do realise that you are very old?

Albus: *smiles* Indeed. What of it?

Bob: Well, to put it harshly, you may fall down dead any second.

*Albus looks shocked before covering his expression with a frown. *

Albus: My dear boy-

Bob: And, also, using these endearments on strangers is creepy.

Albus: *slightly coldly* Perhaps these are just your opinions, Bob.

Bob: *nods* Perhaps, but I really do doubt it. Now, as I was saying, I believe it's time for you to go to a nursing home.

Albus: _Excuse me?_

Bob: I understand you are a very powerful wizard, Albus. But you should not strain yourself, as you are old.

Albus: There is no denying the fact that I am old. However, I know myself better than you do, Bob, and I should think that I could decide if my body is failing. And it is not. *Albus stands. * Thank you for your cousin, but I believe it is high time that you must take your leave. After all, the students are coming back today, and I wish to see them.

*Bob remains seated*

Bob: Albus, as you have refused to care for yourself, I must insist that I do it.

Albus: *in a rare state of extreme shock* WHAT?

Bob: *pats the Headmaster on the shoulder again sympathetically. * I understand that you need time to adjust to these new arrangements. *Bob bows. * I shall see you soon. Perhaps we shall have another talk tonight?

Albus: Your services really are not requir-

*Bob has exited the office. *

**2:54pm**

I must say my taste is flawless in therapists.

**3:11pm**

Aurora Sinistra is an idiot.

**3:12pm**

Correction: Aurora Sinistra _and _Sybil Trelawney are both idiots.

I mean, who the hell predicts someone's horribly tragic future according to the stars and a foggy glass bowling ball? Who do they think they are, centaurs? Yes, yes, I know you agree with me, journal. I will never understand how a seemingly respectable, young pureblood witch ever ended up as friends to a crazy, bug-eyed nutter. And yes, I know that Cassandra Trelawney was a very respected witch. Yes, I know that millions went to her for advice and knowledge of their future.

So?

I'm talking about _Sybil _Trelawney here. A horribly tragic future? Me? Hah, it's not like the Dark Lord's pet snake will come and bite me with those nasty fangs of hers.

Absolutely ridiculous.

And all that codswallop about a huge, looming shadow in my future and the shining of Mars or whatever Trelawney said, along with Sinistra's talk about the certain aligning of the star Corvus and Serpens and how it indicates the clashing of the Dark Lord and I. Do they really expect me to believe that?

**9:13pm**

Merlin's bollocks. Harry-Bloody-Potter is in _my _house! _My _house! Slytherin! The Boy-Whose-Fate-Is-To-Destroy-A-Former-Slytherin is in Slytherin himself! And what's even worse? Minerva McGonagall told me to be _gentle _with him! Can you believe the nerve of that woman? I believe I am even more affected than him about his sorting into Slytherin! Nothing is going well for me, except for the fact I just 5 Galleons from every Professor for the Guess-The-House competition. Lucius has lost hold of at least three quarters of his sanity, along with his dignity, and was now an utter wimp when it came to Narcissa. He now even neglected the effort to insult every Gryffindor he came by and, according to Minerva, had made an expression that would lead one to believe he had wet his pants. Narcissa, the famed last Black Sister (since Andromeda Tonks was disowned) was actually on _good _terms with Minerva, and apparently, now discussed her sex life with Minerva, who in turn _comforted _her about Lucius's…abilities, or lack of. The Apothecary was now ruined thanks to a certain Mr Potter and, astoundingly, his well-behaved godson, Draco Malfoy. As a result, I had to shop at the dreaded Slugs & Jiggers store where that dratted Mr Jigger tried to overcharge me. Honestly, 15 Knuts for a scoop of Beetle eyes? Even men who had massive amounts of money that could last for their future children and grandchildren and great-grand children and great-great grand children (think: Lucius) wouldn't pay _15 blooming Knuts _for _one _scoop of Beetle eyes.

Anyway, the point is that Harry Potter is rather remarkable. Not the good remarkable, mind you, but the horribly but quite astoundingly and maybe a bit amusingly remarkable. But, all the same, he will still likely ruin my life.

I wonder how long it would take for him to get into a life-threatening situation… I'm hoping for never, since he _is _in Slytherin, but that is highly unlikely. Whatever he does, he better not drag Draco into it…

**9:30pm**

To prepare myself for the monsters (read: students) tomorrow, I shall take a rest earlier, like Poppy suggested. Honestly, that woman is like a mother hen, even when it comes to frightening, black-clad Potion Masters like myself.

To sleep!

_Note:_ _Am very impressed with myself. Have not consumed any form of alcoholic products from my store today. I told you I wasn't an alcoholic._

_**Reviews and feedback would be appreciated. Tell me your opinions on Severus; I would like to hear them. Thank you, and I take my leave!**_

_**Until next time!**_


End file.
